Haggling for a good cause

I roused myself at 5:30 a.m. on a recent Saturday morning. A few minutes later, my wife, two of my boys and I were headed toward our church. Before the sun had even awaken, we were on our way to work at the church yard sale. Twelve of us from my church will venture to the Dominican Republic this summer for a week-long mission trip. The yard sale was a fund raiser to aid us in that effort. The whole thing sorta reminded me of the three times my wife and I sold our unwanted stuff at flea market booths back before we had children. A true flea market is rocking way before sunrise as the veteran dealers sniff out the newcomer amateurs and snatch up the valuable stuff before you can even set up. On one occasion, we watched in amazement as people picked through our collection while my truck was still moving. Had I kept it in reverse I would have run over two or three folks. Eventually we just gave up and got out and observed as the veterans held out dollar bills and unpacked our stuff for us. By 10 a.m. that morning, the feeding frenzy had subsided and we were bored stiff. A half-interested couple happened by and I offered them an unusual deal. “Back your truck up to my booth,” I said, “And we’ll give you everything that’s left- no charge.” The deal was sealed with a handshake. Our church yard sale was a little different but I gotta tell you, most of the good stuff was gone in the first thirty minutes. The cliché “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” applied in our case. We sold a giant stuffed Spongebob Squarepants, the 80s version of Trivial Pursuit, and a rocker nobody would even look at until two of my fellow church members shined it up with Old English polish and replaced a screw in the left armrest. I once had an economics professor in college say that the flea market/yard sale venue was the purest form of a true market. People give what they are willing to give and not a cent more. Sellers accept the minimum they are willing to accept and not a cent less. (Until 10 a.m.- then the deals get better and better.) I learned some things last Saturday from a few of my salesmen church brethren. First, don’t put prices on everything. Then you know they’re interested if they ask. Sneaky but effective. Next, if they look at it for more than thirty seconds, they’re going to buy it so hold out for a decent price. True 90% of the time. And finally, if you put items on display outside, it will most certainly rain. But I also discovered the rules change a little when people find out you’re raising money for a mission trip. Somebody bought a canned drink from my son for $5 when the sign said 50 cents. Most people don’t haggle you as much and everybody walks away feeling good because all benefit in some way. Later that afternoon, an umpire caught a glimpse of me yawning during the game I was coaching. When I explained, he laughed a little and lamented the fact that he couldn’t have been there to haggle us for the stuffed Spongebob. (After 10 a.m.)

Blackberries harder to pick these days

Times have changed since the days of my youth many moons ago. Sometimes I long for its simplicity. Yet I must admit, I also love the now. Take for instance, a thing as simple as a blackberry. I used to pick them behind my grandmother’s house. Within thirty minutes, my bucket was overflowing, 70% of my face was purple, and my belly ached. Ah, the good ole’ days. But to the current generation, a blackberry means something radically different. A vital lifeline of communication- linking them to email, the internet, driving directions, calculators, voicemail, baseball scores, and schedule calendars just to name a few. Oh, and yes, it allows you to text. In my day, the word text was a noun and was something you dreaded studying the night before a test. I am privileged enough to currently have in my possession a blackberry. Though I remain largely intimidated by this wallet-sized computer, I have quickly grown dependent upon its features. I appreciate its advantages compared to the technologically impotent days of my youth. As a kid, I stayed up every night during the summer to watch the Sports on Channel 3 at 11:22 p.m. to see if my beloved Pittsburgh Pirates had won or lost. Most of the time Jim Thacker would zip through the scores, often informing me that at last check the Pirates were tied 3-3 with the Cubs in the 4th inning. And when I checked the paper the next morning, it would say the score was too late to be reported. Absolute bummer. Nowadays the blackberry can tell me within seconds of the ball soaring into the upper deck that my lowly Pirates have surrendered yet another grand slam. Herein lies the problem. For many years I lived without cable television, microwave ovens, remote control channel switchers, and cellphones. Yet now it is a traumatic life or death experience when any of the above is misplaced or lost. I think it has to do with dependence. Even our current president has gotten into the act. He wanted to keep his blackberry when he became president. Secret Service and intelligence officials forbade him to do so, claiming that hackers could steal sensitive secret information from his blackberry. Things like- “Hey, Michelle, have the girls decided what breed of dog they want yet?” Top secret stuff. Anyway, he’s one of the most powerful people in the world. Couldn’t he just say something like- “Excuse me, guys, I won the election, not you. Last time I checked I was in charge. The blackberry stays.” Just in time to avert an international crisis, a compromise was reached and the President of the United States has been issued a highly secure blackberry for his viewing and texting pleasure. Problem solved. If only the economy could be fixed so easily. So for old times’ sake, one hot summer night in the near future, I will walk over to the television and turn it on (no remote) to the local news station and munch blackberries while watching the sports. And once they tell me the Pirates have lost yet again, I will send a letter (not a text or email) to the front office demanding they spend more money to buy better players. Then I will check my blackberry for messages and go to bed.

Mom Finally Receives Her Award

Portions of this column appeared four years ago when I first wrote it for Mother’s Day. I thought it appropriate to write about my mom again. She’s worth it. I’ve told this to anybody who would listen since childhood. There existed when I was a young boy an annual contest on the local radio station whereby citizens were encouraged to compose eloquent pieces of non-fiction concerning the impact and sainthood of their mothers. The entries deemed as winners were read on the air throughout Mother’s Day weekend. One year I drew a crayon picture. I recall writing a poem another year. Each year, the same result: no airtime for Mom. I suppose when we’re young, our underdeveloped and juvenile minds conjure up ideas that are largely irrational. My unenlightened mind convinced me that somehow I had failed the woman I loved because my inability to win the contest made my mother appear inferior to the “on-air-mothers” in some way. Now that I am older and possess the power of the pen via this column, I thought it appropriate today to set the record straight in regards to the debate as to who might be crowned best mother ever. I’m pretty sure it’s my mom. I must start by saying I am not biased. I am the first to admit that Mom once fed the family Vienna sausages for supper and didn’t even scrape the jelly fat off them before plopping them down in the middle of the table. And I clearly recall a Thanksgiving meal one year when I was young where we gathered together and blessed Swanson’s chicken pot pie before enjoying it for lunch. But what our house lacked in proper nutrition or cuisine, it made up for it with love. Mom was mostly responsible for that. She always made me feel loved. She disciplined me occasionally but I can’t ever remember her criticizing me. She constantly told me how smart I was, how wonderful I was, how athletic I was, and how handsome I was. And for whatever ridiculous reason, I believed her. Mom tossed baseball with me in the yard when I was six. Mom took me to the newspaper office when I was nine when I told her I wanted to write a weekly column. Mom escorted the police to a bully’s house when he picked on me when I was ten. Mom gave me advice about girls when I became permanently confused about the opposite sex at twelve. Mom slipped me extra money when my allowance didn’t cover the cost of my exploits in high school. Mom was always waiting at the door when I came home on weekends from college. Mom opened her arms and welcomed my wife as a daughter when I got married. She’s always believed in me, always trusted me, always loved me unconditionally. Too many times human types wait until someone is gone and it’s too late to tell them all the things they wanted them to know. Not me. Mom is alive and well and reading this like you are. So here’s to you, Mom. I’m sorry my letters and poems weren’t good enough to win prizes and be read over the airwaves when I was a kid. I hope this column will suffice.

Reaching a new low with hand me downs

I was the youngest member of my family growing up. The baby of the family. My only sibling was an older brother. You learn a lot being the youngest. And your life experience can be radically different compared to the other members of your family in many aspects. Take for instance, hand-me-downs. As the youngest, you get used to them. Admittedly, I actually got excited about them at times. Many a day I would enter the hallway of my junior high wearing a Grand Funk Railroad t-shirt- passed down to me long after anybody could ever remember doing the “Loco-Motion.” I wore my brother’s tennis shoes, faded blue jeans, and the T-shirts of his latest cast-off rock and roll band of that era. Dad passed along his Sunday suits and dress shoes he no longer needed. And I wore my brother and dad’s clothes proudly. To her credit, Mom would ask me if she could take me to buy some new stuff but most of the time I politely declined. Old habits die hard. Still today I can’t stand to see a good pair of pants, sneakers, or a shirt go to waste. My current favorite pair of winter shoes came from a yard sale and cost all of twenty-five cents. One quarter. And I’ve had them for over three years now and I wouldn’t trade them for a hundred quarters. (Twenty-five dollars.) I also have a pair of tennis shoes that I’ve owned for seven years now. Because they were old and worn, I took them with me to the Dominican Republic on my first mission trip there in 2005. And when I return to the Dominican in the summer of 2009, they will accompany me again. But the true purpose of this column is to admit to you, the reading public, that I have reached a new low. Recently I walked into my sixteen-year-old son’s bedroom and he asked, “Why are you wearing my shirt?” His assessment was accurate. I have resorted to wearing the hand-me-downs of my own son. To the outside world it may seem ludicrous, but to me it makes perfect “baby of the family” sense. The oldest son is growing so fast that he outgrows his stuff before it’s worn out. The middle son hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet so I fill in the gap by wearing the outgrown clothing until the youngest two Stroupes are physically mature enough to fill the void. But alas, this hand-me-down phenomenon has reached depths previously deemed unfathomable even by me. Recently I opened my underwear drawer and immediately noticed a strange pair of black boxer/briefs looking at me. We stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, neither willing to blink. “What is this?” I asked a wife in the huskiest, roughest voice I could muster. Answered she, “It’s your son’s underwear. He says they don’t do it for him. I thought you might like them.” You kiddin’ me? A man’s gotta draw the line somewhere. But instead of drawing a line I made a bee-line for the bathroom and tried on the rebel pair of undies. And I’ll be honest with you, I like them. And now I wouldn’t trade them for 100 quarters. (Twenty-five dollars.)